Inky Fingernails

Me: *gets anxious* Me: chill

OHMYGOD. 

…Seriously?

what the hell is wrong with you people???!?!?!

SERIOUSLY?!! YOU PEOPLE ARE SICK! CAN YOU SEE THAT A SERIOUS CRIME HAS BEEN COMMITTED HERE?!!

Who’s the real you? The person who did something awful, or the one who’s horrified by the awful thing you did? Is one part of you allowed to forgive the other?

Is it possible, in the final analysis, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close can we come to that person’s essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?

Sweetheart, I have this insatiable longing to be loved and understood. A hankering for validation. What is that? The same reason birds fly in flocks and stock markets bubble? Some residuum of the herd instinct? I guess it doesn’t matter. What matters is that when I’m with you, I feel loved and understood. I want to know you, study every inch of your mind. But can you ever truly know a person? We exist only in our little skulls, trapped in indecipherability. Perhaps one day we’ll create machines to scan and decode our brains’ electric hums, so we can read each other’s unguarded thoughts, or walk around in one another’s dreams. There will be no separation, no fear. Only communion. I could finally lose myself to you, in an exultant surrender. What are you? You are tenderness. You are warmth. Some miraculous shard of evanescent moon. You are a page of the most euphonious words any Earthling language could muster, and I am here, bruised and waiting for you in the marginalia. Ever yours xx

Sweetheart, I know it’s hard right now. Just to endure. A sort of day-to-day disintegration. It’s hard for me too. Sometimes I feel as though I’m miles under soil, waiting for someone to unearth me. I don’t mean to avoid you. I avoid even the people I care for. It’s a kind of madness. I am a confused jumble of neuroses and delusions, a bewildered couch potato, but I love you. It’s such a miracle that we’re here at all. That, billions of years ago, we hatched out of some empyreal cosmic egg. Were it not for an infinite string of fortuitous happenings and unhappenings, we might not even know each other. And I’m glad we do. You spend so much time worrying that you’re ugly, but you’re beautiful. You conjure up imagined flaws and let them consume you. I get that too, though. My body paralyses me with anxiety. Fuck that. Prettiness is a genetic accident. We’re just an ephemeral collection of subatomic particles. Ancient energy, forged in the furnaces of stars, momentarily suspended in a soap bubble. You worry you’re not pretty enough to be revelled in, but everyone is. You’re radiant, and I adore you. Things will get better. Hell, if the universe is cyclical, they already have. Ever yours xx

me: joins tumblr for fun

PARIS WAS NOT NAMED AFTER PARIS HILTON YOU DIPSHIT

Harnaam Kaur has been featured here before, but this is a great photoshoot. She has polycystic ovary syndrome, a disorder which can cause male pattern hair growth in women. As she is a Sikh, and her religion forbids hair removal, she has kept her facial hair untouched, through years of bullying (and even her parents’ opposition - they wanted her to have an easier life).